by Caz Frear
We know. “Masters did it.”
“Yeah.” She takes a steadying sip of gin. “Or an accomplice.”
The word oozes onto the table, mercury spreading outward.
Dyer to Jacob Pope yesterday: “Did Masters ever talk about friends? People he was close to?”
She’d been thinking this already.
Has she been thinking this for years?
“The match made in hell; it isn’t as rare as you’d think,” she says, qualifying the bombshell. “They reckon around a fifth of serial killers operate in teams.”
Some would argue Masters was a spree killer, not a serial. The latter having longer cooling-off periods between murders, the former all done and dusted within thirty days. It’s a contentious issue though, with no firm definition, and anyway, now’s not the time for being a smart-arse.
Parnell whistles. “Jesus, that’s one hell of a curveball you’ve just thrown.”
Dyer nods. “One that explains the different dump site, though, and the different method of killing.”
And still validates Serena Bailey’s ID. Job done.
Except that it’s a hypothesis, not even a solid theory. Four years of working for Steele has pummeled that difference into me.
“Think about it.” Dyer sits forward. “Holly went missing on Thursday 23rd February. We arrested Masters on Saturday the 25th. We were never absolutely certain that the girls weren’t taken somewhere else, held for a day or two, tortured, then killed—because while we found blood in the house, it wasn’t awash with it. So what if Holly was being held somewhere, then Masters gets arrested, leaving his accomplice with the task of getting rid of her? If he wasn’t a sadist like Masters, maybe more of a voyeur—and there’s generally some psychological difference between most double acts—he might have found a bullet to the head easier to stomach.”
“And he wouldn’t have been able to use the usual dump site in Dulwich Woods, because by then they were crawling with . . . well, us.” I find myself playing along despite the fact I haven’t even started to puzzle this one out.
“Exactly. Good to see you’re not as rigid as your boss, Cat.” She adds a grin to soften the dig, then takes another hurried look toward the door. “And Lu, it’s not a complete curveball. I said at the time we couldn’t rule out an accomplice, but I was told to park it, concentrate on Masters. We had someone, the public felt safe—that meant good night and God bless, as far as the top brass were concerned.”
“Same as when you expressed concerns about Spencer Shaw,” I point out. “Tell me, what was it exactly, ma’am, that you didn’t like about him—apart from the fact he sounds like a complete cretin? See, we haven’t tracked him down yet, but he’s definitely on the radar. Any light you could shine would be helpful.”
“Hmm, well, he was a complete cretin, probably still is, but I don’t want to over-egg that part. He didn’t seem overly worried about Holly, that’s all, and I had a sense he was lying about something. But people lie to us all the time, you know that. And for someone like him, it would be second nature. The idea of an accomplice really needled me, though—far more than Spencer Shaw.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Parnell rubs at his temples. “I get how an accomplice theory might have legs now, in light of what’s happened, but why back then?”
“A few things. All three girls were young, fit, healthy. Relatively hard for a lean man in his fifties to move on his own, don’t you think? There were no drag marks found at the dump site. No superficial wounds on any of the bodies consistent with having been dragged across a woodland floor.”
“Yeah, but it’s not inconceivable that he carried them,” I say, remembering Craig Cooke’s Defense of the Scrawny Man yesterday. “He did a fairly physical job. He was fit.”
She ignores me, changing direction. “And did you ever hear him speak? I suppose not. Well, whether it was put on for effect or not, he had quite an unusual voice. Affected, slightly fey. Older than his years. He always reminded me of one of those BBC newsreaders from the 1950s.” I’ve got an inkling where we’re heading. “The advert—Roommate wanted—female, age 20–35, for quiet, respectful, friendly house near Clapham Common—to me, that sounds like an all-female house. You’d be expecting a female to answer when you called, or at the very least . . .”
“You’re thinking a female accomplice?” Parnell isn’t liking the sound of this. “No, look, there’s examples, obviously, but you’re talking about something extremely rare.”
“You’d be expecting someone female or at the very least younger, was what I was going to say. Ling Chen’s friend told us that Ling was being very picky. She had a nice flat with her boyfriend, and as he didn’t know she was planning her exit, she wasn’t in any great rush to move out. Trust me, I interviewed Masters on several occasions. A young woman would not be rushing to view that room after a few minutes on the phone to him.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, “£600 for a double room near Clapham Common is a hell of a bargain, even back then.” I take a few seconds to consider the theory that Dyer’s been percolating for years. “Seriously, you really think someone else took the calls, lured them to the house?”
“I thought it was a faint possibility back then.” Her expression darkens. “I think it’s certainly plausible now. It also explains—could explain—why he always refused to talk. To us, anyway.”
“He was protecting someone,” says Parnell.
“The silent pact,” says Dyer. “We’ve seen it before. Often the imprisoned one cracks, but it can take years, decades. Masters didn’t get the chance.”
“Who then?” It’s more belligerent than I intended, but as much as I respect her, Dyer needs to put her money where her mouth is. “Jacob Pope said he hardly mentioned anyone from the outside except his family.”
“Didn’t he inherit Valentine Street with two cousins?” Parnell says. “I’m not suggesting we do a dawn raid, but it’s worth checking them both out, no?”
“You’d have a job doing dawn raids, Lu. One lives in Cape Town, has done since 2003, so they’re in the clear. The other has been pushing up daisies since 2014.”
“Which could still put him in the frame. Could,” I add. While I’m happy to poke this theory with a stick, I’m not entirely rolling with it.
“Her, actually.” Dyer clinks a nail against her G&T glass. On the other side of the bar, a roar of frustration erupts from the race watchers. Betting slips torn up, expletives coming thick and fast. We watch for a minute, probably less, before Dyer says, “There was the lad who worked for him—Brandon Keefe. A few people mentioned they seemed quite close. Masters’ wife said he’d always wanted a son—he couldn’t relate well to girls.” No shit. “And he—Keefe—left the country not long after the trial, which in hindsight was . . .” She chooses her words carefully, lacing her fingers on the table. “Noteworthy, I suppose.” She shrugs. “He could be worth another chat.”
A chat. How genteel. Roughly translated as, “He could be worth fucking with, for no other purpose than shaking branches and seeing what falls.”
Brandon Keefe. The name means zip to me but Parnell nods. “Didn’t he do an interview with the Mail? A two-page spread. An ‘I always knew he was evil’–type thing.”
“Not a very silent pact if he’s talking to journalists,” I suggest.
“Wouldn’t be the first time a guilty party thrust themselves into the limelight,” says Dyer. “It could have been one big laugh between him and Masters.”
The “coulds” are piling up. A stinking great compost heap of possibility. “So did you ever look into this Brandon Keefe?”
“There wasn’t any real reason to. He was one of the few people who Masters associated with regularly, so obviously we spoke with him, but it was more to get a sense of what might have triggered Masters. It was Keefe who mentioned Masters’ anger over his ex-wife’s engagement.” She places both palms flat on the table. “Look, it’s not like I was ever absolutely sold on the idea of an accompli
ce. It was just something I thought needed considering. But I was alone in that view and the truth is, when I was told to drop it, I dropped it. Do I regret that now? Yes. Do I understand why the decision was taken at the time. Yes.”
And is Brandon Keefe worth a chat? Sure, why not? Parnell gives me a small nod, signaling where our next stop will be.
“So how old are your kids now? Boys, right?” Parnell smiles as he takes a sharp swerve to the left, steering us away from witnesses and accomplices and the multiple kinks in this case. “I’ve got double the amount of boys since we last saw each other. Surprise twins, Joe and James. They’re nearly eight now.”
“So I heard. You were a brave man going back to dirty nappies in your late forties.”
“Ah, but they keep me young. I mean, I haven’t had a decent lie-in for years and my wrinkles have got wrinkles, but at least I can recite the entire script of Lego Batman.”
She laughs. “Enjoy it. Mine are eleven and thirteen and it’s all Fortnite and FIFA. And, of course, I’m a ‘total loser’ at both.” Her eyes lower to the table. “Funny, the things that make them miss their dad. It’s not just Christmases, birthdays; it’s bloody computer games, which is ridiculous, because he was useless at anything like that.”
Her kindness yesterday, her genuine concern. The bossiness, the fussing, making sure I got to the hospital in the shortest possible time. It all makes sense now.
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I thought . . .” I look down at her left hand.
“I should take the ring off, really. A lot of people, widows—God, I hate that word—they wear them around their necks, which I suppose is nice, but I don’t want to.” She twists it around her finger, now easily a size too big. Grief can do that to a person, strip the meat from their bones. “And anyway, the ring’s handy for dealing with tradesmen. They’re less likely to fleece you if they think a big bad husband might appear at some point.” Before I can offer another inadequate “sorry,” she’s on her feet, beaming at something behind us. “Well, look who the cat dragged in.”
“Do not talk to me about cats, Tessa Dyer. They have me lawn ruined, pissing and shitting all over the place.”
Smooth, melodic tones, honed somewhere in the south of Ireland. As entrances go, ex–Chief Superintendent Oliver Cairns’ is a bold one.
He’s a striking man in a well-cut suit, although a thousand miles east of conventionally handsome. Tall and reed thin, with a thatch of white hair sweeping back from a high forehead and a clutter of large features fighting for room on his lined face. I’m guessing if he was still on the job in 2012, he must be late sixties at most, although he could pass for late seventies with his papery skin and crooked gait.
Still, he smells wonderful, all musky and rich, and what he lacks in good looks he makes up for in verve.
I stand up, sticking my hand out. “Another cat, I’m afraid, sir. DC Cat Kinsella. I’ve never pissed in your garden though.”
Why, oh why, oh why did I say that?
He roars laughing, giving me a bone-crusher of a handshake, then grabs Dyer in an embrace with the force of a prop forward.
Dyer’s voice is muffled in his shoulder. “Cat works with Kate.”
“With Kate.” Steele’s name has him wagging his tail even harder. “Jesus, even I didn’t work with Kate and I was her guv’nor for five years. Dances to her own tune, that one.” He looks around. “Where is the madwoman, anyway?”
“Budgets.” Parnell offers a hand. “DS Lu Parnell, another of Kate’s minions.”
Cairns shakes it warmly. “Nice to meet you, Lu. And did I hear you right? Budgets? Kate Steele passing up a session for a spreadsheet? Well, she’s changed.” He empties his pockets onto the table: keys, phone, lighter, rolling papers, a pouch of Amber Leaf tobacco, and a ball of screwed-up banknotes.
“You haven’t.” Dyer picks up the tobacco. “I thought you’d quit.”
“I did. Four long months and Christ, didn’t everyone know about it? Honestly, I’m brutal without nicotine. I bit the head off my cleaner over a broken casserole dish I didn’t even know I owned! Trust me, the world’s better off if I’m smoking.”
Parnell, predictable as the moon, says, “Have you tried the vape?”
“Ah now, Lu, there’s nothing more tedious than a ‘how-I-quit-cigs’ story. Save your breath, I’ve heard them all. Sure, I’ve told half of them meself. And yet here I am, still smoking like the Poolbeg Chimneys.” He snatches a crumpled twenty off the table. “Now, what I can get you?”
Parnell calls time, shuffling out of the banquette. “Nothing for us, sadly. We’re still on the clock. Things to do, people to see.”
“Well, if you see your boss, tell her to get her arse down here. All work and no play makes Katie a dull girl.”
Katie.
Brilliant.
Parnell’s squinting at his phone, holding it a few feet away from his nose, having brought the wrong glasses. “Speak of the devil. Looks like I’m off to church tomorrow. There’s some sort of memorial service being held for Holly. Steele wants someone there.”
“Bloody hell, that was quick,” I say. “We only formally announced ID this morning.”
He scans the rest of the message. “Her friends have put it together. An impromptu gathering at All Saints in Dollis Hill. All welcome. Twelve p.m.”
“And am I coming?”
Before he can answer, my phone dings: a text message from Steele.
And yes, Cinderella, you may go to the ball
8
We didn’t get many women in the shop, but when we did, something came over him. His eyes darkened. His posture went as rigid as a steel bar. His voice took on a rough, husky tone, like he’d entered some sort of altered state.
Bit of a windbag, Brandon Keefe. The type who’d craft a Hollywood script out of making a ham sandwich.
You hear people saying, “It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” but I never understood what that meant until now. Because that was what Chris was. Just a quiet, unassuming guy. Some days he was so quiet, I’d think I’d done something wrong. Maybe the till was £5 down or I’d let the stockroom get too messy. But then at the end of my shift, after he’d said no more than ten words to me all day, he’d always do the same thing—pat me on the back and say, “Night, Brandon. You’re a good lad, you are.” He certainly never said anything that made me think he’d do this.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I look up from the Mail article. “Such as? ‘Hey, Chris, see the match last night?’ ‘Nah, mate, too busy slicing the flesh from a young barmaid’s thigh.’ I wonder how much he got paid for this tripe?”
Parnell’s driving and only half-listening, concentrating instead on the swarm of headphone-wearing, smartphone-ogling pedestrians playing dodge-the-traffic as we muscle our way through the havoc of King’s Cross.
“Seriously, how much do you reckon he got?” Being broke always makes me consumed with other people’s windfalls. “The price of a holiday? A new car?”
“Maybe both, and change to spare. Gossip on Masters would have been high currency.”
I attempt a vague calculation, settle on “a lot.” “What are the chances we work with a serial killer? State of my overdraft, I could do with selling a story.” I lean my head against the window, taking in the ever-changing face of the main hub of King’s Cross, from Shitsville to Live-Work-Playville in less than a decade. “I think my money’d be on Cooke. He’s a quiet one. I mean, he mentions ‘his Karen’ from time to time, but has anyone actually met her? And do we even know that he’s got kids?”
“Sorry to rain on your parade, but I’ve met Karen and so have you. Steele’s fiftieth, don’t you remember? She did ‘Ice Ice Baby’ on the karaoke.” A vague, Sambuca-soaked memory resurrects itself. “And it’s a myth, you know—‘the quiet ones’ theory. Sure, some people fit the bill. Dennis Nilsen wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality. Ed Gein, neither. But for every Dennis and Ed, you’ve got a Ted Bundy or a John Wayne Gacy. Gacy
was a children’s entertainer. You’ve got to be outgoing if you can face being stuck in a musty church hall with thirty preschoolers wired on cake pops and orange squash.”
“I thought it was all fruit skewers and soy milkshakes these days? And anyway, it’s a myth that Masters was quiet, if you believe Jacob Pope. ‘Always mouthing off,’ remember?”
“That happens sometimes, the personality change. Once they’re convicted, the mask can come off. They can be themselves. Voice all the stuff they felt they couldn’t before.” He glances at my phone on the armrest. “How far now?”
“Zero point four kilometers.” Not long to get our ducks in a row. “So how are we playing this? We can hardly accuse him of anything based on a bit of pub conjecture. I’d be wary of even implying anything.”
“We’re just gauging his reaction, that’s all. Doing the same spiel—we’re revisiting the case, checking the facts, fresh pair of eyes. All that jazz.”
“You make it sound like we’re selling him a line.”
He doesn’t answer, slowing and taking a right. “This is it, Gifford Way. Keep your eyes peeled for number seventy-eight.”
Gentrification hasn’t yet reached Brandon Keefe’s neighborhood, the part some call North King’s Cross and others call “The V,” its shape formed by the convergence of the Caledonian Road—known locally as “The Cally”—and York Way. The prevailing narrative is that The V is a war zone, an area rife with social problems: drugs, violence, feral youth, ya-di-ya-di-ya, when, of course, what it’s actually rife with is hordes of ordinary decent people living ordinary decent lives.
Although maybe not at 78 Gifford Way.
A guy, not Brandon Keefe—unless the past six years have been profoundly unkind—opens the door and eyes our warrant cards with the kind of dispassionate disgust shown by someone who likes to think of himself as an “enemy of da state,” even throwing in a gold-toothed yawn for good measure. He shouts, “Brandon! Cops,” up the stairs, then swaggers—a painfully practiced gangster glide, complete with false limp, the ultimate illusion of toughness—back down the hall to the kitchen, where he appears to be marinating chicken.